


I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

by shirogiku



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Foreshadowing, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Pre-Canon, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cutler sets Hal's books on fire because there's no one to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from "I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire" by The Ink Splots.

The night is young, and Cutler has got a lot to burn.  
  
He can vaguely remember something about a man who set a great library on fire to write himself into the history books. In Alexandria? Or in Ancient Greece? It has worked out for him splendidly - he might as well be Julius Bloody Ceasar as far as Cutler is concerned.

Either way, his story has already been written, and Cutler's interests lie in works in progress.  
  
He parks the car in the usual spot, noting that the rain has washed away the old wheel prints. He opens the boot and uncorks a bottle of cabernet, the nighttime wind ruffling his hair and playing with his brown coat. It’s only him and the local fauna at the reservoir, the gaping absence by his side oozing red and sepia-coloured memories. It’s a wound demanding to be cauterized. _Let’s get on with it_ , he tells himself, frozen to the spot.  
  
Hal didn’t really have much in the way of possessions. He certainly didn’t leave behind any unspeakable riches. Hell, he didn’t even own that club they’d used for their gatherings. He also turned down Cutler’s insistent offers of looking after his investments.  
  
Cutler toasts to Irony, the mistress of them all. Someone -- Fergus, most likely -- raided the wine cellar before he got there, so he had to pay for his drink, this time. He could swear he’d glimpsed Fergus wearing a pair of Hal’s shoes. It has to stop.  
  
One by one, he throws Hal’s books into a graceless pile, taking his time to leaf through the pages. No postcards, no letters, a photograph of three comely, delicious-looking sisters (not a kill Cutler was present at), a blonde lock, a dried wild rose smelling of cheap perfume and other rubbish.  
  
“ _To my dear Harry_ _,_ ” Cutler reads aloud an inscription at random, his mouth curled in derision. “ _May you never stray from your path_ _..._ Blah-blah. _Lord knows you’re a good man..._ What?” Cutler knits his brows in puzzlement. “Huh. You must have borrowed it from a namesake, Hal. A Bible, of all things!” Cutler is surprised the book doesn’t burn his fingers -- he didn’t notice what it was when he grabbed it. ”Signed by Sister Mary.” Cutler bursts out laughing. “Alright, I can see why you kept it.” He tenses instinctively, expecting a reply for a moment too long.  
  
Hal’s highbrow and pretentious poetry lies in the mud, now indistinguishable from his more down-to-earth detective novels, such as the four Queens of Crime and, of course, Doyle. This morning a certain Wyndham expressed his interest in the collection. Well, that’s just too bad -- Cutler has other plans for it.  
  
Hal’s gloved fingers curl around Cutler’s hand in a vice-like grip. Cutler’s body remembers every single touch, the light, fluttery and the bruising ones.  
  
“What?” Cutler challenges, tilting up his chin in defiance. “Stop me. I dare you. Oh wait, you have to actually be _not proper dead_ to achieve that.” A sob claws its way up his throat and he chokes on it. He gulps down more wine, wishing it was blood. He should have brought a snack but there was no room in the boot.  
  
More books on the backseat. Cutler moves on to them.  
  
“I will show you how a Fahrenheit 451 is done,” Cutler says. “With a smile and a flick of a match.”

And another flick because he snaps the first match in two before it lights up. And a third flick because they are Hal’s matches -- evil bastards -- and won’t catch fire without making things difficult for him.  
  
Hal would read to Cutler from those poetry books, calling him Nick , mixing his name with outdated, cryptic words. Hal would look at them like a lover, his face a mask of perfect concentration, the words rolling off his tongue in waves. Hal’s sensual, cruel lips would etch the verses into Cutler’s skin and Cutler would bleed, tied to the bedpost, writhing and begging for release that wouldn’t come for hours.  
  
Hal will be so mad about the pyre when he returns. Maybe, Hal will even burn him alive as a punishment. Or cut off his tongue, like he’s promised. Cutler laughs because he almost believes it.  
  
He tosses Hal’s expensive suits into the fire and it burns hot and bright. He tries on one of Hal’s fashionable hats and does a little dance, clowning around like a fool that he is.  
  
“It’s too big for you,” Hal says, leaning against the car, the fire painting his face in orange and reddish hues. “Go for the shoes.”  
  
Cutler scowls. “Not my fault if your skull is so big. And so _thick_.”  
  
Hal gives him an unimpressed look.  
  
The bottle -- his third -- falls out of Cutler’s hand and he staggers towards Hal. “What kind of an idiot lets a dog escape and kill him? Can you hear me? I never would have thought I’d call you that but you’re a bloody idiot, Hal Yorke.”  
  
He rests his tired head against Hal’s shoulder and that is how he knows Hal isn't there - he doesn’t push Cutler away. The cool car's surface smells of paint and metal.  
  
Cutler turns around and mimics Hal’s pose, folding his hands across his chest.

Hal smiles as he leans closer with a whisper of, “there are things you don’t know about me.” He thrusts his tongue into Cutler’s ear, making him flinch. "Things you will _never_ know."

The lapels of Hal's coat feel awfully solid for thin air. "Are they worth knowing, though?"  
  
The figment murmurs smugly, “you are losing your mind, Nick.” The ashes are dancing between them in the wind. "Tut-tut." The world is burning and nothing hurts.  
  
“And whose fault is that?” Cutler retorts, talking to an empty space.  
  
Memories don’t burn. Not really.


End file.
